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Monday, November 11, 2013

Monday Poetry Stretch - Poems of Peace

In thinking about Veterans Day I read over some of the pieces linked at the Poetry Foundation's page on Veterans Day Poems, as well as some of the entries at The Sandbox. I have a great deal of respect for soldiers, the sacrifices they make, and the work they do. We wouldn't be who we are without them. That's why this week, I want to write about peace, something we should all be working towards.

I hope you'll join me this week in writing a poem for peace, or perhaps one for soldier. Please share a link to your poem or the poem itself in the comments.

3 comments:

Great subject for today, Tricia. Here's a sonnet I've been steadily revising that touches on what is needed to achieve peace.

First Saddle

This tall man, hard from handling heavy tack, Hitches his skittish filly to a post,Lifts curry comb to groom her bristled backIn gentle circle gestures, like a ghostEasing an armored steed before a battle.Once he has her breathing more at peace,He places on a weathered western saddle Then tugs a rough cinch tight within the creaseBetween her shoulders and her ribs. He taps Her neck and smooths out tangles in her mane,Guiding bridle, bit, and leather strapsOver her face. She snaps. He grips a rein,But slackly, and she softens. Slow to force,He knows what harm’s in harnessing a horse.

When the sun lights the leaves sidewayswith gold and it’s summer, with cool eveningcoming on, and the cut grass smells green,when the taste of grape popsicleis still on your tongue and the feel of faston your bike is still in your legs, when schoolis forgotten, like a scrap of notebook paperthat fell from your pocket, when you are laughingwith your sister on the front steps, that is peace.You will keep it with you forever.

THE PARENTAL CIRCUSMomma and Dada are piercing each other’s hearts with Words being fired like arrows hitting their intended mark. This cacophony of madness has been going on since supper. I hunker down in my room as the parental circus travels to Their bedroom. I hold Dolly, my French poodle who’s shaking Like a tree caught in the grips of a hurricane. She’s usually a Chatterbox though now she’s remains silent as her eyes dart Back and forth. This argument has now quieted down to crying Jags with an occasional catching of breath. I feel as if my brains Being pecked by crows having their last supper. I hear their door Open as mine follows suit. Momma and Dada sit on either side of me, Rubbing Dolly’s back then mine. Their eyes are red, noses raw. Their voices crack as they say to me (and to each other I think) One word that will start as a healing balm to our sores … Sorry.

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